Good People
by Linxcat
Summary: Three o'clock, Moist von Lipwig had discovered over the years, was a bad time to be awake. It was just the wrong time of night – or did it count as morning by then? – to be conscious...


Three o'clock, Moist von Lipwig had discovered over the years, was a bad time to be awake. It was just the wrong time of night – or did it count as morning by then? – to be conscious.

There were few choices of action for such a situation; you could face the facts that slumber was very unlikely, and get up to do something useful. If you were lucky enough to fall back asleep, you would have the _unlucky_ side effect of reawakening the next morning, feeling as if you have had not slept at all, leaving you blundering through the day like a visually impaired zombie.

Or, at three o'clock in the morning, you could _ponder_. Pondering is a dangerous past-time for most, as it usually involves the considering of one's conscience and the general evaluation of your moral wellbeing. The pondering of Moist von Lipwig was no exception.

Something had been playing on his mind for a while and he'd been putting off, pushing it away, as a kind of self-preservation tactic – he knew that if he started thinking about it and didn't come some sort of conclusion, it would be nagging at the back of his head forever and drive him slowly insane. That was, if the combination of trying to juggle running the Post Office, the Ankh-Morpork Bank and Royal Mint, collecting the city's taxes, _and _the attentions of his three young children didn't claim his sanity first.

Which, if he was honest, was far more likely.

Moist heaved himself into a sitting position, reluctantly giving up the attainment of unconsciousness by natural means due to the muggy summer heat – _I could quite easily knock myself out with a chair, or jump out the window, or smother myself with a pillow, or_ – and facing that, sooner or later, he was going to have to start thinking about…Good People.

_Oh ye gods, I've started now, haven't I? _He groaned, running his hands down his face, _Alright, let's get it over and done with…_

It had started last week, when Vetinari had called him in for one of his…(Moist had tried to figure out a pattern to these seemingly random call-ins, but the best he could come up with was that the days in between always increased or decreased by factors of eight or twelve. One day, he vowed, Vetinari's coach would pull up outside the Lipwig house and _he_ would be expecting _him_)…appointments. Moist had given him the report of the general goings-on under his command – the introduction of the new tuppence coins, bearing, of course, the profile of the patrician himself, and the new summer edition first class stamps carrying the bizarre image of a golem dressed in a swimsuit. That one, uhh, hadn't been _his_ idea...

He had tried to conclude with the statement that he was sure the good people of Ankh-Morpork would find the new stamps impossible to resist, but Vetinari interrupted him.

"What did you say?"

Moist von Lipwig knew very well that Vetinari heard every word he said, crystal clear. Therefore, there was some correction in order. Oh dear. He swallowed, "I'm sure the good people of-"

"Good people?" Lord Vetinari gave him a strangely…benevolent smile that made him shudder for the second time when he thought of it later. "Mr Lipwig, surely you of all people understand that there are no…_good people_ in Ankh-Morpork?"

"I'm...not sure I follow…"

"There are, always and only, the bad people, but some of them are on opposite sides."

It was at this point that Drumknott decided to helpfully point out that this should be within quotation marks. Vetinari nodded, an odd kind of smile on his lips, less terrifying than the previous one but it still sent shivers down Moist's spine.

"Ah yes, I did address that one to Commander Vimes quite a few years ago. He didn't take it too well, I'm afraid, although I suppose he wouldn't be much good at his job if he _believed_ it. You on the other hand Mr Lipwig, as I understand, rather depend on it."

Depend on it? True, he did – or at least, he used to, in his conman days, he was a _respectable_ member of society now – live by the saying that you can't fool an honest man. And the less honest men in the city, the more effective he could be at his job.

But…was it really true to say that there was not a single good person in Ankh-Morpork? Not a single person? Surely there must be someone somewhere who danced in the rain and sung in the snow and gave their bread to poor children. It didn't seem right that there couldn't be.

Moist's ponderings were interrupted. A smile curled his lips as he heard the quiet snuffles of snoring to his right. Ah, Spike. It was difficult to imagine why his wife would be called something so harsh when watching her asleep; yes, she frowned and curled her fingers tightly into her pillow as if it had just insulted her, but with her dark hair loose and the pale skin of her shoulder exposed, there was something strangely vulnerable and fragile about her.

_Was Adora a bad person? _

The thought surprised Moist as it popped into his head. It was unwelcome and shunned by his other, less complicated ponderings, because it involved entering into the realms of conscience and the issue of morality, a place where no well-advised and sensible thought would wander into unless it had the skirt of its mother to hide behind. Moist attempted to ignore it, but was unsuccessful as it elbowed its way roughly to the front of his mind and simply refused to be forgotten.

Adora Belle von Lipwig (and she thought she'd got the worst combination of names possible with Dearheart...) was quick-tempered, neurotic, cared very little for what anyone else thought and wasn't afraid to speak her mind, even to the Patrician himself. Oh, and she had violent tendencies whenever she was irritated and wearing her stiletto heels and/or in grabbing distance of a book, vase, or unfortunate small animal.

But could temper and snappishness really constitute a bad person? She still worked tirelessly for the Golem Trust, although when it reached the point where, when she was pregnant with John, it took her twenty minutes to get down the stairs, Moist had insisted that she hand the bulk of the work over to some other fanati- err, representative.

It took only a few weeks, to his surprise, to find a replacement. Jovial Smint was twenty three years old, bright, enthusiastic and almost as obsessive about Golem Rights as Adora herself. The young woman's… perkiness tended to grate on your nerves after a while (or a few seconds if you were Mrs Lipwig, of course, but during the interview she _was_ eight months pregnant, cigarette-less for six months and chocolate-less for nearly twelve minutes, so Moist thought that was fair enough really. At least she hadn't thrown anything…), but even Adora had to concede that she was perfect for the job. She was also the only applicant, but they usually glazed over that one…

This meant that, over the next few years, when work was strenuous and he was sure he was only clinging onto his sanity with the very tips of his fingertips, he had the luxury of stumbling home, falling through the front door, wailing 'Dooorraaaahhhh!' pitifully in the least masculine way he knew how (because, damn it, if you couldn't be un-masculine in your own home, where could you be?) and receiving a sympathetic cuddle, with the promise of a good 'cheering up' later. That was, if Adora wasn't out. Or Gladys didn't get to him first. Or one of the kids – or all of them – didn't decide to ambush him.

Well, okay, the thought that he _could_ do it, in exceptional circumstances, was nice. It…helped.

Moist frowned and struggled to remember his original train of thought. Ah, yes; the point was, Spike worked hard for the good of the city's protectors and voluntary servants, and she'd – okay, mellowed wasn't the best way to describe it as she was still distinctly _spiky_, but she'd got less violent and more patient. And that really did count for something, especially when small children were concerned.

And Spike was _good_ at being a mother; the attitude she showed to Golems, that tenderness in her voice and constant dedication, was the same she showed to each of the children. She was very firm, yes, but that was needed with the offspring of an inherent conman (It worked a bit like good cop-bad cop, really – mum saw through every lie and cheat, so if they ever came up with something brilliant, they would show dad, who would at least humour it, and usually offered advice, "Just, uhh, don't tell mum I taught you how to pick the safe lock, alright?")

Anyway, Adora couldn't be considered a _bad_ person, at least. Satisfied that he'd put that one to rest and not wanting to think on it any longer, Moist swung his legs out of bed and unwittingly stubbed his toe on the side table. This morning was just getting better and better.

He staggered out of the room, closing the door quickly behind him, hobbling along to check the nursery door was also properly closed (it was, thank the gods for Gladys' efficiency when it came to shutting up for the night), before letting out a long barrage of loud swear words and nursing his foot.

After a few moments' hopping around, when his vocabulary was exhausted, he attempted to place his foot down on the floor to walk on it. In hindsight, it was a pretty bad idea.

"Ack! Ice. Oooh, need ice."

He gazed down at the magnificent set of stairs before him that lead to the corridor where the kitchen was. There was no way he could walk down them normally, and hopping down stairs was just suicidal. So, Moist von Lipwig, Postmaster General, Head of the Ankh-Morpork Bank and Royal Mint, the man behind the new efficient Tax Collection Service, devoted husband and father to three…

…Gave up on his dignity and bum-shuffled down the staircase in the manner of a bad-tempered toddler.

When reaching the bottom (no pun intended) he glanced around, clambered to his feet, or foot, and cleared his throat several times. There was no need to ever tell anyone about that, or even think about it again. Just…move on. Ice. He wanted ice. Yes.

The kitchen floor was slate and blissfully cool on his throbbing toe. As he sank into a chair in the corner he congratulated himself on how his good taste had been rewarded with practicality. Well, technically, it was Mrs Dearheart's good taste; the moment she'd found out that he and Adora were planning on buying one of the old mansions near the Ramkin area – well, Vimes now, but everyone knew it as the Ramkin area – to do up, she'd gotten herself involved.

It had been, of course, bloody Vetinari's suggestion, as Moist was just beginning to get used to having three full-time jobs at once and being one of the most responsible men in the city, and had almost started to relax, which clearly meant that he didn't have enough on his plate.

Vetinari had mentioned the house and when they went to look around it was, obviously, _perfect_; a gorgeous veranda and several well-placed balconies, half decent paintwork both inside and out, a huge kitchen with pantry and cool room, more bedrooms than Moist hoped they would need and, of course, a well ventilated nursery. Sure, the roof was a bit botched up and the library currently resembled a Bloody Stupid Johnson creation, but there was nothing a few months' work of sweat and elbow grease couldn't fix.

Well, okay, figuring in _his_ schedule, maybe a year or so of metaphorical sweat and elbow grease. And then Adora had got pregnant before the building work was finished (why did everyone always look at him like it was entirely _his_ fault when that was mentioned? It took two to tango, thank you very much, and his wife was never one to shy away from…dancing…), which meant that she was banned from doing anything as strenuous as helping with the paintwork, instead being confined to the library. It was the only room warm enough for someone in her 'condition' to spend any length of time in, and so she spent a good two months sorting out which books were still legible and which had been turned to mush by a combination of half a century of damp and woodworm.

This, however, resulted in very slow progress in the more vital parts of the house, such as the part of the roof that leaked like a waterfall, and venturing into the wardrobe in the second bedroom to work out what exactly was making that awful smell.

And then, in a stroke of pure genius, Moist von Lipwig set up the first nocturnal golem decorating business. Golems didn't need to sleep or rest, so why not give them the opportunity to work during the night? He'd set Gladys in charge of it, which had settled her strange claim for promotion earlier on in that year (he'd asked her simply, "To what?"), and the house had been completed just in time for Hogswatch and the arrival of the baby.

Moist grinned to himself as he thought about what he'd internally dubbed 'the Early Days', back when he had been genuinely wary of That Twit That Ran The Watch. Now, after many years of planning, he'd perfected the art of being casually on the way to work and passing the Vimes household just as Commander Vimes was at his gate, where they would spend the fifteen minute stroll into town (as both of their wives had insisted that there really was no point in taking a coach, it was only a short walk) arguing and sometimes resorting to petty violence, Moist cheerfully irritating Vimes and Vimes wishing he'd memorised the law book like Carrot so he could find some inventive way of arresting his neighbour.

He liked to think that they were almost friends, really. Almost. Sure, Vimes had 'copper issues' - some sort of sixth sense that screamed "CRIMMINAL!" every time he saw Moist, which prevented him from showing any sort of open civility to his neighbour, but their verbal spars kept him on his toes whenever Sacharissa wasn't around. And since his past was revealed and Vetinari had pointed out he was pardoned from it through method of almost-hanging, he had nothing to fear from the gruff commander, except perhaps Vimes' boot connecting with his gold-clad behind.

It was always good to have some sort of relationship with big figures in the city, too; Commander – _Duke_ - Samuel Vimes was an influential man with a lot of power. If anything happened to Vetinari, he and other important men, probably including Moist himself, would have to either find a new leader or run Ankh-Morpork between them. This was something he'd mentioned to Vimes and the older man had agreed. One of the few other things that they agreed on was that trying to 'make friends' with Mr De Worde, however, was just bloody pushing it.

Moist eased his toe up and down. No, it still ached. He'd have to find ice; in the sweltering heat of the last few days, Adora had asked Gladys and a few golems to bring up ice from the nearest ice house for the children's baths, to be stored in the cool scullery. It was mostly melted by now, but there might still be some left to be filched for a throbbing toe. Slowly he eased himself back up to his feet and hobbled over to a nearby door, throwing it open and closing his eyes as he was blasted with a blissful face-full blast of freezing cold –

…Cheese?

He opened his eyes and frowned. This was the pantry, not the scullery. The _pantry_. It didn't have a lock on the door any more! _Aimsbury _always had a lock on the pantry door and would change it every so often to 'keep the master amused'. And it did! Whenever he got bored he would attempt the feat of sneaking into the kitchen and breaking into the pantry. But not anymore.

Aimsbury and Peggy had left the bank kitchens and joined the Lipwig family in the new house after he and Adora finally married. There had been no problems whatsoever for six happy years, until one fateful day a few weeks ago when an unwitting friend of John's had been invited round for dinner. And what had he mentioned, of course?

It really hadn't been Aimsbury's fault at all. The boy said the word once, and little Marie was in that generally very amusing stage of toddlerdom where she tended to repeat particular words.

The shrill cry of "Garlic? Garrrlicckkk! Gaaaarrrliiiiiic!" was too much for the chef, and Moist managed to snatch his daughter from her high chair just before the knife landed. Needless to say, the boy never came back, and Aimsbury decided it was really about time to retire, and for his service was awarded the title of groundskeeper.

The young man they now hired was new in town, fresh from some obscure place in Uberwald, and really didn't understand Mr Lipwig's fixation with lock-picking; if the master wanted to get into the pantry…well…it was his pantry, there was no point in locking it…

Moist staggered to the other side of the room and threw open the door, greeted by a wave of cool air and – yes, in the corner, a large puddle by the drain with a small block of ice still clinging on to solidity.

He took it and used an apron to bandage it to his foot, sighing in delight as the throbbing eased. If he went slowly, he could just about walk. He opened the kitchen door and was halfway to the staircase, standing in the middle of the (rather grand, if he did say so himself) hall, when he heard the sounds of paws on marble

Oh _gods_.

The three dogs advanced from the parlour, where they slept at night for optimum burglar-hearing opportunities, skidding a little on the shiny floor surface. The smallest was little more than a puppy, but even a tiny Lipwigzer was pretty intimidating if it flashed its teeth enough.

"Schlat!" Moist hissed, "Schlat! Oh bloody- SCHLAT!"

The three dogs all slammed down their respective behinds mid-run, the littlest letting out a yelp as it toppled over with the force of stopping quickly and slid across the floor to land sheepishly, if a dog could look sheepish, on Moist's bandaged foot. He nudged it back up to its feet, grunting in pain as his toe protested at the contact.

"Alright, yes, hello, hello," he paid each one a few moments of attention, patting and scratching each on the head and behind the ears, "Now back to bed, okay? Go, off, now."

The Lipwgzers retreated back to their bed obediently and Moist sighed, running a hand through his hair as he turned back to the task of ascending the stairs. Ferocious guard dogs, my _arse_. They'd bought one initially for John when he'd started looking hopefully at the Vimes family pets down the road (there was no way in hell, Adora had explained sweetly, they were getting a bloody _dragon_). As a deterrent, it worked exceptionally well, and on Robert's third birthday, at his insistence, he received one too. The puppy was bought in the hope, well, expectation, that Marie would one day appreciate it for more than just a target for her surprisingly well-aimed soft-toy missiles.

Moist managed to get back to the second floor by putting his weight heavily on one arm, which clung to the banister as he hobbled. He reached the top after several minutes and sank against the balustrade in relief. His toe had gone deliciously numb now, but with the amount of pain that it had caused him it must have broken. _Fantastic_. He would call for the doctor in the morning – well, okay, _later_ in the morning.

"Should have knocked myself out with that chair." He muttered, pushing himself up to start off down the corridor back to the bedroom that he and Adora occupied.

He stopped dead when he heard the noise – a high-pitched keening whine – then turned around and hobbled as fast as he could in the other direction. This was the calm before the storm, the tremors before the earthquake, the cloud of ash that blackened the sky before the lava came and consumed you, and he had about twenty seconds before the volcano was due to erupt. He reached the door and managed to close it again behind him as the first deafening shriek met his ears.

Moist von Lipwig had heard the scream of a banshee, but nothing compared to the lung capacity of his youngest child. She was stood upright in her cot, the bars clutched in her chubby toddler hands as she threw her head back and wailed.

Toddlers were an interesting phenomenon, Moist mused, as he made his way over to her; despite their size and cherubim appearance, they tended to be distinctly cunning. It was probably the survival instincts and beginning of world awareness combining, but the babbling speech gave them enough cover to still seem innocent. They knew exactly how to get your attention, could sit and evaluate your weaknesses and, when everything went wahoonie-shaped, could pout and whimper until you found yourself weak at the knees and forgiving them their every crime.

He knew very well that there was nothing wrong with his daughter. If there was something wrong, she had long mastered enough speech to call _Mama_, _Daddy_, or _Pebby_, as Peggy, who helped out as a nursemaid and slept across the hall, had been dubbed. Marie was simply in the same situation as him – she'd woken up and could not return to the world of slumber, so she was bored and wanted attention. And screaming always got the most fun reaction.

Marie opened her eyes, pausing in her cry for a moment (as, for small children, screaming and opening one's eyes seemed to be mutually exclusive) at the sound of the door closing. Her eyes found him and lit up in delight. She held up her arms and chattered happily and, as he picked her up, Moist felt his bad mood slipping away like sand through his fingers, his world spiralling up into pastel pink and yolky yellow fluffy-edged realms.

He sat down in the armchair beside the cot, there specifically for such situations, Marie curling up happily in his lap, and the part of his brain containing his dignity gave up on trying to remove the silly grin from his face. Moist picked up some manner of fluffy stuffed animal, an unfortunate creature that had somehow managed to come into possession of both a long pair of pink ears and a long blue tail, rendering it species-less, and handed it to his daughter. She cried out in delight and clutched it to her, then pointed determinedly at the worn book sitting on the arm of the chair.

"Caa-woo." she said firmly, and suddenly the fluff was less fluffy and the light of reality began to fade the pink and yellow. Moist stifled a groan.

"Can't we read something-"

Marie shot him a look that was clearly inherited from her mother, looked him in the eyes and snapped, "Caa-wooo, daddy, caa-woo!"

There was no arguing with that.

_Where's my Cow? _Was the favourite book of the Lipwig household, and probably every household with a child under the age of five. It had almost become a statutory gift for a new child; this particular edition had turned up as a gift for John's first birthday that no one ever owned up to, although Moist thoroughly suspected Commander Vimes. John, and later Robert and Marie, adored it, and it became the standard storytime choice, despite the fact that none of them had ever _seen_ a cow. Moist was quite prepared to take the whole family on a holiday to the outlying fields of Lipwig if he could just prove that cows were really not interesting enough to throw two hour tantrums over.

And, of course, reading the book was _daddy's_ responsibility, because while mummy was quite prepared to run in front of hurtling carriages to save her children, making farm animal noises every night was just pushing it.

With the reluctance and weariness of a man who had read it nearly every night for the last five years, Moist dutifully plucked the weathered book from the arm of the chair and began.

They had just met the sheep, who baa'd quite magnificently but really was no replacement for the lost cow, when they were interrupted by a mop of dark messy locks that poked around the door, which was quickly pushed aside and replaced by a taller head of sandy-brown curls.

"Dad, your sheep noises woke me and Robert up," John mumbled sleepily, yawning then protesting as his brother shoved back past him, stumbling across the room to snag a seat on the other side of his father's lap.

"I was that loud...?" Moist frowned, "Sorry, you know I get carried away with this dam- uh, this book."

"That's why we like it! You're funny." Robert grinned gappily, grudgingly shifting to make room on the arm of the chair for John, who kicked him sharply in the back for his troubles.

"You're better at reading stories than mum," John explained, making himself comfortable, "You do all the right voices and stuff."

"Hmm." said Moist, mentally noting that one. Then he made one last hopeful plea, "How about we read something different tonight, yeah?"

"Different?" Robert frowned, "Like what?"

"Like an adventure story!" John suggested enthusiastically, "Pirates! Bandits! Big fights!"

"Caa-woo!" Marie cried, giving her father a reproachful look. Moist passed her another stuffed animal (this was was a purplish-coloured bear with particularly big eyes that, personally, rather creeped Moist out, but she loved it dearly) and she was appeased, at least for the moment.

"Have _you_ had any adventures, daddy?" Robert asked thoughtfully, moving John's foot out of the small of his back and curling up into his father's side.

"'Course not, he's postmaster and taxmaster and...bankmaster. You don't have adventures when you're bankmaster!"

"I have too." Moist retorted smugly.

"Really?" John leaned forwards on the armrest, eyes wide, until he nearly toppled forwards onto Robert, "Real adventures?"

"Real adventures. I fought a banshee once."

"A banshee!" both boys cried in delight.

"How did you meet the banshee?" John demanded.

"Someone sent it to kill me. It set fire to the Post Office and then it tried to kill me!"

"Did you fight it with a sword?"

"Did you kill it, dad?"

"Did you get set on fire?"

"Did you set _it_ on fire?"

"Shh," Moist raised a finger to his lips and gestured to Marie, who had fallen asleep. Robert climbed off his lap so he could deposit the sleeping toddler in her cot, then led both boys back into the larger nursery and back to their beds.

Ten minutes later he closed the door carefully behind him, then paused and pressed his ear to the door, grinning. Inside was an intense whispered debate over how exactly dad had managed to win the infamous Clacks versus Post race, since the broomstick was no longer an option.

Now in a much more cheerful mood, he walked carefully back to his bedroom at the end of the corridor; the soaring feeling was slowly dimming, but it had been brilliant while it lasted. He wasn't swindling anyone out of money and it wasn't a con, because it was all true. Well, most of it. But he was putting on a show! He had at two children, and one day would have the attention of the third, hanging on his his every word. The golden glow was still tickling his toes, and a surge of delight hit his heart as he imagined putting that bloody book finally on the shelf because his kids had found something more exciting than _cows_.

He pushed open the bedroom door and found himself irritatingly awake. Was it even worth trying to go back to sleep?

Moist pulled open the curtain a little and stuck his head out of the window, breathing in the slightly fresher, although still muggy, air. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the window pane, smiling as the cool glass met his forehead.

"Why have you got a tea towel tied around your ankle?"

Without missing a beat, Moist replied, "Actually, it's an apron."

"Why have you got an _apron_ tied around your ankle?"

Moist turned back to the inquisitive gaze of his wife.

"I broke my toe," he replied, as if that explained everything. Adora raised her eyebrows and didn't ask.

"I heard the boys talking. Did they wake Marie up?"

"No, she woke them up." It was almost true.

"You got them back to sleep?"

"Yep." Moist climbed back into bed, carefully unwinding the material from his foot and showing his wife, "See? Apron. Not tea towel."

"Ouch, that definitely looks broken." Adora prodded his swollen toe and snorted as he snarled something in Uberwaldian through gritted teeth. He lay down and folded his arms with her watching him thoughtfully.

"I woke up earlier and you were talking in your sleep." She said after a few minutes of reflection.

He lifted his head to look at her. "Really? What was I saying?"

"Mostly gibberish – like when you're awake - but you kept mentioning something about 'good people'."

Moist's response was to groan loudly and cover his face with his hands, "You had to go and mention that again!"

"What?" she frowned, her confusion slipping into irritation as it usually did. "What's your problem with it?"

"It was something Vetinari said the other day...about there being no good people in Ankh-Morpork. It's been going round and round in my head for ages."

"No good people?" Adora paused to consider this, then replied with the confidence of one who was always right, "That's not true."

"It isn't?" Moist pulled his hands from his face, intrigued.

"Of course it isn't. If you think about it statistically...how many people in the city have ever been in jail? It must be a tiny proportion compared to the massive population."

"That's more about poor policing, not moral tendencies..."

"Alright," she rolled her eyes, "Think about it like this – the average person you met on the street wouldn't want to kill you soon as look at you, right?"

"Right..." agreed Moist uncertainly.

"Then, if you think about it...all people shouldn't be classed as bad with just a tendency to do good. All people are good, they just have an overwhelming desire to do bad."

He sat and looked at her for a while.

"That's a surprisingly optimistic view for someone like you." he said finally.

"You've clearly brought the golden light of enlightenment into my life." she curled up on her side and smirked at him, "Oh, wait, that's just the glare from the sun on your suit."

"I thought we'd finished with all the suit jokes..."

"Me too. Imagine my delight when I discovered we had not."

There was a few moments' silence as Moist pondered the revelation his wife had just imparted to him whilst she buried her face into the pillow.

"Adora?"

"Mmm?" she snapped. If anyone could snap a grunting sound, it would be Adora._ Eyes are closed, ipso facto, am asleep_, said her frown.

"...Am_ I_ a good person?"

Adora opened her eyes like a cat does when its tail has just been tugged; there was the potential for murder in their depths if you got too close.

"You're the best damn person in the city, dear."

"Really?" Moist smiled innocently as Adora rolled over.

"Yes. At least you _tell_ everyone that you're always just playing silly buggers."

"Hmmm." he said mock-reflectively, unable to hide his grin. He slipped an arm around her, "Adora?"

"Piss off, Moist."

"I love you."

Moist von Lipwig closed his eyes and, after a few seconds, fell soundly asleep.

That was, until the alarm went off about twenty minutes later. It was the unfortunate alarm clock's turn to find out which time in the morning was a bad time to be awake, it discovering this when it was thrown against the wall and smashed into several pieces by the grumpy, but undeniably _good_, Postmaster, Taxmaster and Bankmaster of Ankh-Morpork.


End file.
